


Ghosts

by sheafrotherdon



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Episode Related, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-02-16
Updated: 2008-02-16
Packaged: 2017-10-11 22:44:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/117970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheafrotherdon/pseuds/sheafrotherdon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rodney's sitting on the edge of his bed, back toward the door of his quarters when John walks in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ghosts

Rodney's sitting on the edge of his bed, back toward the door of his quarters when John walks in. He's much too still, head bowed and shoulders smooth – there's no pull and shift of muscles in his back where there ought to be movement, no telltale restlessness to suggest the press of fingers against a tablet, a wringing of hands, the unconscious tap of fingertips against thigh. John pauses, shuffles his feet, rubs the back of his neck in indecision before he finds it in himself to cross the room, round the bed, and sit down beside him.

"Hey," he says softly.

"I'm losing count of how many times I've been sure I've killed you," Rodney says conversationally. He doesn't look up – his eyes seem locked on some square inch of floorspace a couple of feet in front of him.

John sighs. "Rodney . . . "

"I used to think you were just suicidal, you know?" One corner of Rodney's mouth quirks up into a wry smile. "But then you kept not-dying, and I realized it was so much more complicated than that. It's not that you _want_ to die, you know? It's just that you will if it'll – if other people . . ."

He swallows hard. John watches the bob of his Adam's apple, notices the dark shadow of stubble grazing his throat.

"And I admire that." Rodney huffs a breath. "It probably speaks to the fact that working here has permanently and disastrously unbalanced my mental facilities, upended my morals, and violated my somewhat unstable sense of ethics, but I get it all the same. Sometimes I find myself trusting in it when everything's . . ." The smile dies and Rodney's lips twist. "But then – then I – " He swallows again. "I can't get away from the fact that while you have a propensity for, say, running toward _Wraith_ when you're quite possibly the last uninjured military representative on a space-station in the middle of nowhere, _I'm_ the one who vents the atmosphere, builds the bomb, leaves you behind with Ford and his merry band of . . ."

"Hey," John says fervently.

". . . doesn't check that Todd is on task rather than hacking the system, reactivates the nanites, restarts a protocol that can – and will – destroy most of a solar system while you're . . ."

" _Hey_."

Rodney doesn't look up, but at least he quiets, and John notices the white of his knuckles where his hands are clasped together, the brilliant red that betrays the pressure in his fingertips.

"Rodney," he whispers, awkwardly covering Rodney's furious hands with one of his own.

"I thought I'd killed you," Rodney murmurs, and there's a desperate note to his voice that's just about enough to break John's heart.

"You didn't," he says, shifting, pressing a firm, dry kiss to Rodney's temple. He tilts his head, rests his forehead where the kiss had been. "You didn't, I'm fine."

"Sure," Rodney says, "but nothing else was – the station was gone, and SGC was breached, and _my code_ was broken and you were – you locked yourself in the cockpit and . . ."

John closes his eyes for a second, tries to master the unhappy twist of frustration in his chest, then he reaches to grab Rodney's arm, tugging him into something that's almost like them facing one other. "None of this is your fault," he says tightly.

"Oh, _please_ . . ."

"And you are a stubborn, fucked-up jackass if you think _any_ of it is," John elaborates. He's surprised to realize he's angry, _furious_ , pissed off down deep to his core.

"Yes, yes, thank you, team leader. It's good to know you read the training manual on how to – "

John shakes him just a little. "What else should we have done?"

"It's not what _you_ did that's the problem, is it?" Rodney snaps.

"Yeah, it is," John says dangerously. "I gave the order, I told you to – "

"And I _did_ ," Rodney says, tensing his hands, tugging to try and free himself from John's grip. "I did. I did what you said like a good little soldier and – "

"And like a good little soldier you saved the lives of everyone else on that station," John say, his voice pitched toward reasonableness, steady and low. "You made sure no _other_ Wraith got to earth and – "

"You son of a bitch," Rodney says, and succeeds in breaking free, rips his arm out of John's hold and stands up, begins pacing. "I don't need your fucking platitudes, okay? If that's all you've got for me, you can just . . ."

"What?" John asks, standing too. "What exactly do you want?"

"For you to just _get_ that . . ."

"You want me to join in your little pity party?" John asks, and there's panic crawling underneath his skin – fear that he's asked too much, that he can't have this and do his job too; fear that he can't make this _right_ , that there isn't a promise he can make, and god, he ought to be able to make promises. He rolls his shoulders, thins his lips. "Because you seem to be doing just fine on your own."

Rodney stares at him. "You – "

"I mean, I'm all for teamwork, but on this one . . ."

To be fair, John thinks as his head snaps back, he's never underestimated Rodney's upper body strength – he's always figured that in a knock-down, drag-out fight, Rodney could get in a couple of punches if he had the element of surprise, and those shoulders obviously contain enough power to leave someone's head ringing. He just never anticipated that it'd be _his_ jaw that'd take the brunt of that theory, and while he can claim a little comfort from the way Rodney's saying "ow, ow, ow," and shaking out his hand, it's not a lot considering the guy just _punched_ him.

"Sorry," Rodney says, looking shamefaced, flexing his fingers. "Just – "

"I get it," John grits out, almost thankful for the blame, and he grabs for him, manhandles him back against the wall, kisses him hard – all teeth and tongue and soft desperate noises that he doesn't recognize at first are coming from his own throat, but god, _god_ , he just –

"You realize?" Rodney says, panting as they break for air. "There's something truly fucked up about you kissing me after I've inflicted violence on you, and I think we both really ought to consider voluntarily submitting to counseling because – "

"You apologized," John says impatiently, and kisses him again, starts tugging clumsily at Rodney's t-shirt, pulling it out of his pants. He needs his hands on skin – warm, living flesh – and when he palms the ladder of Rodney's ribs, feels Rodney gulp and gasp against him, it feels like maybe the last few days are going to fall into line, become regular, everyday sorts of experiences, not the screaming end of things for everyone he cares about that he'd imagined as he'd shouldered his gun. "And – I'm . . ."

"Sorry too, yes, I can fill in the blanks, just . . . " Rodney arches into John's body, grinds his hips up and makes John's brain short-out. "Can we take this to the bed, now, now, now . . ."

And John agrees with every tendon in his hands, with the muscles in his arms, drags Rodney forward with fingers hooked possessively inside the waistband of his pants, spins him round and shoves him hard onto the bed, crawls up over him. They're ridiculous – too old for this kind of sex, already bruised and battered – but all John can think is _now, now, now_ , an echo of Rodney's want thrumming in his own blood, and he yanks at Rodney's zipper, frees him from his boxer shorts, bends his head and swallows him down.

" _God_ ," Rodney gasps, and his hips buck, his fingers sink into John's hair. His nails graze John's scalp and the soft-hurt pleasure of it rockets down John's spine, forces itself greedily into the empty spaces in behind his lungs, and he has to raise his head, gasp for breath, drag air into his chest and force out, " _Rodney_."

"C'mere," Rodney orders, like he has any business issuing commands, but he's scrabbling at John's shoulders, hauling him up by the fabric of his shirt, kissing him desperately as he works a hand between them, squeezing John through the fabric of his BDUs. John groans sharply, twists his head to suck hard against the stubble of Rodney's throat, does what he can to give Rodney room to work at his fly, get his cock free, uses his own hands to pull and tug at pants and boxers until they've room to grind down, up, hair and sweat and hard, hard flesh and John pants into the wrinkled fabric of Rodney's t-shirt, bites at a collarbone he can't even see.

"Need," he manages. "Need – c'mon, make me . . ." and he's thrusting into the cradle of Rodney's hips, shuddering as Rodney's nails scratch the small of his back, his hands own skimming up, elbows taking his weight, fingers holding Rodney's head in place as he kisses him, kisses him, tells him what he can, not much, with incomprehensible breath and dangerous teeth, rubbing himself to an orgasm that shocks a sob from his body, leaves him dazed and shuddering, limp and helpless with only Rodney holding him up.

He makes a small, feeble noise of protest when Rodney rolls him onto his back, but Rodney's hands are gentle, unfastening his shirt buttons, unlacing his boots, stripping him now with a fondness they didn't have time or words for before. He drifts as Rodney remakes him, turns him from warrior back into John, tugs away his BDUs and stained, frayed boxers, leaving him naked. It's cold without his clothes, sweat evaporating from his body as his heart rate slows, and he watches idly as Rodney strips himself too, pulling away the armor of a soldier he was never meant to be, replacing boots and military-issue pants with soft, pale skin and the small rise of a belly that John's grown to love. "Here," John whispers, holding out his hand when Rodney's folding his clothes. "C'mere."

And Rodney sighs, lets himself be tugged down into the narrow bed again, reaches to pull the blankets up over them both, high and tight around their shoulders. "I . . ." He looks down, and John stares at his eyelashes, thinks that's maybe why he's caught off guard when Rodney finishes the sentence. "Love you. Is all."

The air rushes out of John's lungs and he freezes for a second, tangled up beneath body-warm blankets with a guy who can _say_ stuff like that, who can actually form words and – "Me too," he blurts, wincing right after.

Rodney laughs, sounds surprised, looks back up at John's face. His expression is tired, a little rueful. "Yeah," he nods, and slides an arm around John's body, closes his eyes.

"Yeah," John repeats, stunned and wakeful, and if there are ghosts around the bed – the guys he hasn't saved; the close-calls that imprint themselves in the shadows; the duties that threaten to leave him cold – there's reassurance in Rodney's breathing, in the press of a body against his own, in the complicated, never easy tangle of them choosing this over any other end.

And turning his face into Rodney's hair, he closes his own eyes too.


End file.
